


pounce

by elfloversanonymous (asexuelf)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Bottom Anders, Consensual Non-Consent, Dom Fenris (Dragon Age), Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor Fenris (Dragon Age), M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Roleplay, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Safeword Use, Sub Anders (Dragon Age), Sweet Fenris (Dragon Age), Top Fenris (Dragon Age), Trans Anders (Dragon Age), Trans Fenris (Dragon Age), Trauma, inquisition era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 20:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexuelf/pseuds/elfloversanonymous
Summary: The fear that was so sweet before turns sour quickly. He cannot remember if this is supposed to feel good or not.





	pounce

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my docs for aaaages and i've reread it and reread it and rewritten it and finally i've decided i'm just going to post it so happy 4/20 everybody hope you enjoy 👌
> 
> warnings for emotional flashback/trauma flashback and past rape/abuse!

Anders is certain he didn’t used to enjoy men being so rough with him. Before, hands holding him down meant being caught; Templars’ sharp gauntlets pressing into his skin, an awful wave of energy pushing his magic away from him - a terrifying moment of the Fade being a step further away than normal. Bed partners holding him down meant he was in danger, that if Templars came knocking, he would already be ready for them. Bed partners holding him down used to mean Templars _had_ come knocking and planned to make use of their charge.

Anders wants it to mean safety.

That’s how the game started, with Anders admitting his anger at himself for still being so afraid. He’d gone on and on, venting, ranting, then crying, as Fenris held his hand, his green eyes intense and caring. When he was emptied of tears, determination filled him instead, and he’d looked into those intense eyes with his own and suggested the scene.

They’ve done all kinds of roleplay. It can be fun, to pretend; Anders can barely remember the days he used to play with the other village children and Fenris has no memories of play at all, if one discounts tipsy card games.

So, he’d said to Fenris, “Take me as hard as you want to and while you do, pretend I’m unwilling. I- I want to yell _no_ and _stop_ and know I’m okay.”

It’s taken much discussion, but they’re here now, with Anders tied to the bed with their loveliest thin rope, nude and willing and screaming.

Fenris pistons roughly inside of him, the clasps from the strap-on designed special to bite into Anders’ skin as Fenris’ hips slap harshly against his ass. This particular toy is for Anders’ pleasure, a gift from the Iron Bull, and it situates on his _dominus_ ’ hips so as to not provide pressure on his clit, leaving him level-headed enough to provide this and more for his sub - his _inferus._  He wanted this to be about Anders tonight, he’d said during the negotiations. Fenris will take as little physical pleasure as possible in this scene.

That had seemed pointless, at first, but now Anders can’t tell much difference. Calls of “no” and “stop” leave Anders’ mouth with something like reverence, the harsh rhythm of Fenris’ hips like a gift from the Maker. At first, Fenris had made the few nasty comments Anders had written for him, calling him a good mage whore and a tight slut, but now he is silent, acting as though Anders’ face is an afterthought, his body here just for Fenris’ pleasure.

“ _Domine_ , please! Mercy. _Mercy._ ”

Anders is crying, the tears warm on his cheeks but cold when gravity slides them towards his ears. He feels so full, almost to the point of pain, and he is expertly trapped beneath his lover, caged beneath the alarming strength of his _dominus._

He’d asked for the collar and leash tonight, aware of Fenris’ personal discomfort with the items, ready for him to decline, and found him instead in an agreeable mood.

“I am free now, which is a fact sometimes hard to accept, but when we play like this….” He had averted his eyes, expression caught between thoughtful and ashamed, then said, “I like to make them mine, when we play.” Before adding, with a sudden, dangerous smirk, “I like to make you mine.”

Anders likes it, too. The collar is an expensive one, and is soft and yielding most nights, made of dark, gentle leather. The leash, however, makes that leather cruel and tight, and Anders chokes through his tears when Fenris pulls the leash, wrapped firmly around his strong hand, tightly to the side.

Above him, Fenris’ muscles glisten faintly, sweat-slicked and handsome, strained and yet still so powerful. His boney hips are so sharp where they beat against Anders’ that each time hurts more than the last, awful and wonderful, and not for the first time, Anders hopes to bruise. Like this, with Fenris hard and unyielding above him and inside him, Anders feels small. Wanted. Cherished. Bruises are a reminder that these things are true, even when Fenris is gone for such long days on Inquisition business.

“No, _no,_ ” he chokes again. The cock inside him is the perfect side of painful, thick and punishing, but something is changing - he begins to feel anxious. Fenris has said so little since they began their game, the closest thing to speech he gives Anders now little more than grunts of effort.

He’s always quiet during sex, especially when their play gets rougher like this. Anders gets pulled down during these games, something like lightheadedness taking him not-quite far away, but Fenris has said it’s the opposite for him; the world becomes clear and focused, with Anders as the center.

When the center of his universe makes such loud noises, he’d explained, he must remain silent, waiting for that word to stop it all.

But, Anders can’t think of that now.

Fenris breathes heavily above Anders, his white hair pulled away from his face with a lazy tie of leather, and Anders yearns to touch it, to comfort and find comfort in his _dominus._ Fenris’ brows are pulled together, lips parted, sweat dripping down his face and following the lyrium lines down his chest.

His expression makes Anders struggle against the leash. That face is so focused, Fenris almost seems pained, and his eyes are closed tightly as he fucks hard into Anders.

Anxiety worms its way into Anders’ chest, blooming and spreading slowly with each jarring thrust - is he not pleasing his _domine_? Is he not pliant enough - or should he _fight_ more, clench on the cock inside him and kick at Fenris with his legs? Is “no” wrong - should he say “stop” more instead? Should he drop the whole game and just beg for more, beg to be used?

_This is all I’m good for,_ he could say. _This is what I was made to do._

_This is all a mage will ever be good for._

“Please,” The thin cords around his wrists trap his hands to the headboard, tight, too tight, and he pulls and pulls but cannot touch Fenris, cannot beg for proof of his love, of his safety. He wants desperately to bury his face into that long white hair, tangle his hands into it, but the only place they touch is where Fenris allows; between them, where he grabs Anders’ thigh in a bruising grip, like a Templar, (a Templar?), from his youth, pushing Anders face-first into the ground. He can taste dirt in his mouth. His own crying is his mother’s, an echo long-since past, heart-broken and afraid. “Please, _domine!_ ”

There is no Templar here. Fenris is holding his legs open, like he begged him to. The collar means _love_ , _ownership -_ it is not a hand around his throat.

Anders struggles against the memory, mirrored by his struggle against the cords holding him. His wrists hurt. He could heal them, but Fenris has not demanded that, has not asked that of him. If he casts a spell, will he feel a Templar’s Cleanse shake him from the inside out?

He doesn’t want to be trapped anymore, he wants Fenris to hold him, slap him, say “ _you’re mine_ ”, but he is silent, so silent.

A silent protector or a silent assassin?

Anders cries in earnest, shaking all over, and the fear that was so sweet before turns sour quickly. He cannot remember if this is supposed to feel good or not. Who is above him? Anders cannot see through his tears, and he cannot reach out to be sure of himself or of his lover.

“My _domine-_ ” The clasps are Templar armor, biting into him as his assailant pistons in and out, painful. “Please, Fenris, please.”

The thrusts slow; Anders opens his eyes to see, hoping to be soothed by the concern in familiar green eyes, open and attentive. Instead, he sees Ser Leland.

“Pounce! Pounce!” Anders struggles blindly, the terror amplifying his voice to a scream.

Immediately, his assailant stills, and the sound of his own watchword brings Anders slightly back to the present. There is no Templar here - only Fenris.

Before he can blink, Anders is free of his bindings, the leash and collar thrown off the bed, the thin cords torn by Fenris’ easy strength. He does not pull out, not yet, but his hips are very still, and he leans to give Anders view of the door behind him.

When Anders’ eyes slide from the door to Fenris - and he _is_ Fenris now, the sight of that familiar brown skin and flat nose an immediate relief - he sees intense attentiveness. “What do you need?”

“Out,” Anders gasps.

“Pull out?”

“ _Yes_ ** _._** ”

Fenris holds Anders’ hips carefully, lifting him with a graceful strength while he carefully pulls his cock free. As soon as he is free, he untangles himself from the leather straps, throwing the thing to the floor. “What do you need?” he asks again.

Anders’ mind is blank. He cannot think.

His voice breaks. “Love me.”

And then Fenris is there, arms around him, soothing hands sliding up and down his back. Somehow, Anders is in his lap, and although this makes him more than a head taller than the elf, it’s perfect. Anders throws the tie to the floor and buries his face and hands in his long white hair, soft and sweaty and familiar, wholly unable to stop himself from weeping.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’m so sorry.”

“Do not be,” Fenris murmurs against his chest, pressing tender kisses into the flesh there. Anders can barely make out the words. “You did so well, _carus._ You did so well, and now you are safe.”

“Safe?”

“Safe. No harm will come to you here.” Fenris’ arms tighten around him, rubbing his back and sides gently. Part of Anders wants him to stop his touches, but the rest will fall apart without them.

“Fenris.” He takes a deep breath, sniffing loudly. “Fenris.”

“I am here.” His voice is a deep, rumbling comfort, and softer even than the thick blankets beneath them. “I am yours. Tell me what you need.”

“I- Space.” He’s coming back to himself now, just a little. He was right, before; Fenris’ hands on him don’t feel quite right, not yet. “I need a bit of space, please.”

Fenris easily untangles their limbs, but only pulls away after helping Anders prop himself up against the pillows.

When Fenris attempts to leave the bed, Anders nearly screams, “No!” He grabs Fenris’ arm tightly, clutching him so tightly his nails dig into the elf’s skin.

Fenris’ eyes are wide, and although startled, he touches the hand gripping him very gently.  “I will not leave you.” His voice makes it a promise, and Anders believes him.

Anders takes a shaky breath.

“Would it be alright,” Fenris licks his lips, like he’s choosing his words, glancing sideways. “If I were to put things away while you took deep breaths here? I will stay in the room. I will protect you.”

Slowly, Anders nods, unwillingly uncurling his fingers from Fenris’ strong arm. It feels better this time, although the loss of touch leaves Anders’ heart pumping quickly, feeling rejected. He cuddles a pillow to his chest and breathes, in and out, to combat this.

“Alright.” But his voice is small and hoarse from shouting all evening.

“I… will bring you water.”

Anders is grateful.

It takes a little while to calm down completely - his body is in full panic mode, the memories of the Circle painful and raw. They always speak of these things before they play, know the risks and account for them well, but still, this is not the first time either of them has had to watchword out.

Bull says there’s nothing wrong with that - with two histories as pain-filled as Anders’ and his lover’s, there’s bound to be moments of difficulties. And this, too, was one of the hardest games they’ve played; they’d prepared for it extensively the past week or so, but apparently not enough. Anders wasn’t enough.

He pushes that guilt far, far away. That won’t do anything for him here. This is not rejection, it is the opposite, no matter how much his chest aches.

He needed Fenris to stop. Fenris needed to know when he needed to stop. As soon as he knew, Fenris stopped.

Fenris stopped, Anders thinks. Not like Ser Leland.

That, too, is a detrimental path to follow.

To avoid his thoughts, he focuses instead on his lover’s chores, watching intently as Fenris stows away their toys in the heavy chest in the corner.  He wipes them down thoroughly, the collar first and then the leash. He does the same with his cock, cleaning it very well with water and disinfectant herbs before putting it with his others, the harness left elsewhere while Anders wasn’t looking. Anders is almost finished sipping his second glass of water when Fenris runs out of tasks, and begins to make some up.

Tidying their desk, brushing out his hair, re-folding their clothes from this evening - Anders watches on fondly, heart slowing and swelling with the knowledge that Fenris is giving him time.

Fenris stopped.

Anders is safe here.

Fenris looks about ready to begin actually doing his paperwork just to look busy when Anders can take it no more.

“Will you hold me?” He is surprised to hear his voice still so small, yet so clear.

Fenris turns and says, “Yes.” He strides towards the bed gracefully, obviously keeping himself small as well. He doesn’t want to frighten his lover, Anders realizes, touched and amused. “Where do you want me?”

Anders smiles and pats the bed between his legs. “I want to hold you - hold each other.”

Fenris nods and climbs on to their bed, settling with his back to Anders’ chest. Anders wraps his arms tenderly around him, uncertain if he can handle touch, but finds himself faring just fine. Fenris holds Anders’ hands to his face and kisses sweetly at his fingers, at his still-red wrists and the indents the rope left behind.

Anders hums.

They sit in shared silence for a moment. Fenris knows speech can be more to Anders’ detriment than otherwise when it comes to moments like these. Fenris is the same way, needing careful quiet when reminded of trauma so loud.

This time, though, the quiet doesn’t help, reminding him too much of the closet where Ser Leland had held him too tightly, been so quiet except for to say-

_This is the only thing a mage will ever be good for._

Anders does not want to think of Ser Leland.

“Fenris,” he says. Then, “ _Domine_.”

Fenris shakes his head. “I am not, not right now. You are not my sub right now. You are _carus_ \- beloved to me more than anything else.” He turns his head, his pointed ear smushed against Anders’ chest. He closes his eyes, and only now does Anders see the fear in his face, etched into the tired lines around his eyes. “I will protect you.”

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Anders presses wet kisses to Fenris’ forehead. “It’s not your fault, you know. I asked for this. Thank you for stopping so quickly.”

Fenris’ dark brows pull together. “Of course. Anders, I do not wish to hurt you.”

He sounds so sad, it breaks Anders’ heart. Fenris has his own Ser Lelands, and they haunt him just as well. “Even when it’s fun?” he tries.

Fenris’ mouth twitches, and Anders takes it as a victory. “ _Only_ when it’s fun.”

And if that doesn’t just melt Anders’ insides. _What a man,_  he thinks, feeling suddenly breathless. “Maker, I love you.”

Fenris’ ears perk up, twitching cutely, and a small, genuine curve of a smile graces his mouth. “And I love you.” He continues his kisses, slow, sweet presses of his mouth to Anders’ knuckles.

“I’m sorry for frightening you.”

Fenris shakes his head. “No, I am sorry. I should have noticed something was wrong. I should have checked in.”

For a moment, Anders holds his tongue, then says, “If we play like that again,” Fenris looks up, meeting his eyes. “Will you… speak? Tell me things?”

“Yes. Only… I do not know what to say.”

Anders kisses his ear, giggling when it naturally bats against his face. “I’ll write down things I want to hear, and you can read them in your war meetings while ignoring Cullen.”

Fenris smirks wryly. “Already making plans, are you? My lusty man and I.”

Anders grins. “I’m lusty?” He would admit that freely. “Who’s the man that spanks me bruised whenever he wishes?”

Fenris leans back and chuckles. “Who’s the man that asks me to?”

He still feels open and raw, but laughing about things makes it all so much easier to bear - the way he’d _hoped_ fucking about it might. Perhaps another time, he thinks, when the memories are further away and better dealt with, he can make this his again.

Regardless, Ser Leland will not invade their bedroom any more tonight, not if Anders can help it. No one will ever take this from him, their game of _dominus_ and _inferus._

Anders presses a hard kiss to the skin beneath Fenris’ ear, holding him tightly.

If he is surprised by the sudden change, he says nothing, only holding his lover in return.

**Author's Note:**

> 💖 thank you for reading!


End file.
